Threading the Wrong Needle | Twilight [2]

deux

9 years old, 1802

Estelle was a bright nine when she realized that her mother and her uncle were not normal in the same way that other parents were.

Over the years she was capable of depending on the continuity and familiarity of the same thing over and over from her mother and uncle that she had only begun to notice the change as they were passing through the small town in eastern Belgium, the one with the lake that had she had nearly drowned in. She had seen those teasing children had grown just as she had, but it was not only them, she realized, as she faced that their parents had as well -- hair greying and the weight of tasks weighing on them with ugly bruising beneath their eyes and wrinkles that pulled at crinkled smiles.

Never had she viewed a single wrinkle or out of place hair upon her maman, nor her uncle for that matter.

They were odd, beings that seemed to stand aside in the process of ageing. It did not sit right with her, not in the way she wanted answers to ease her curiosity, to chase away the worry that began to fill in her throat.

"Maman, why are you still young and beautiful in face when the other maman's have grown old and weary?" Estelle asked as the carriage rode straight through town, her Uncle Hugo sitting up front steering the horses.

Her Uncle had bought a home, a little farmhouse a little far off, one that no one would visit and they could always live in.

Estelle was certain it would not be as fun as when they were invited to stay as guests within the French and Belgian manors or palaces. Estelle much preferred the long, racing halls with high chandeliers that swung and gleamed.

"It is, ma belle fille, because you maman has the beauty and kindness in heart that these ladies do not," Uncle had told her, a teasing glint in his eyes that Estelle could not yet understand. 

Despite only begin a girl of nine, Estelle was no fool. She had learned from many of her friends and acquaintances that a sibling bond was filled with laughter and jest. Uncle and maman were no different and she knew that her Uncle Hugo did not mean it true when he called her maman nice things, not with the full weight of sincerity. 

Maman, however, was the kindest and most beautiful woman she had ever met. Estelle could not see the fun in what her uncle had said to her then. She doubted that she ever could see something so clear in it would so severely change the way that she had viewed her mother.

Estelle did not ask the question again. 

Instead, she observed her maman and her uncle as well. Curiously, she took notice and made herself a list of the details that she knew to be different from other families. Things she had never paid much mind to, never much care to examine, flickered into focus now. 

Her family did not eat, not the way that Estelle did -- at least not with her. While Estelle would be given full plates and bowls, food warm and hearty, her family would nibble or sit with a simple smile and assure that they would eat later. 

Her family had eyes the colour of crimson that she had never before seen anywhere else. Maman would gleam and darken, and would grab uncle Hugo by the shoulder so tightly Estelle was sure his skin would crack and force him from the home after she was to go to bed. Their eyes would always be bright and clear the next moment she saw them long after she had fallen to rest by the window waiting their return. 

Estelle's maman was stronger than any other woman in the village -- no matter which village they came to reside. Marion had lifted wagons when her uncle needed to change a wheel, and had lifted livestock from the road when they were in too much of a hurry to usher them along. Estelle's uncle was strong, surely, but he was a man built with wide shoulders and strong arms. Maman was not. 

Maman shown in the sunlight. She twinkled like a light bug and glimmered like the water's surface on a warm summer day. Estelle had learnt when she was very young that she was not to mention this fact to a singular soul. That it would ruin maman and it could get all of them hurt. 

She knew for certain that maman was not a witch, nor was she a demoness. She was not silly to think such atrocities could be possible in relation to the person who loved her most in the world, to the only people that were constantly within her pull. 

The night that Estelle learnt this fact, this life-changing discovery of the truth of her family's differences, she had been nine. It was nearing the time of harvest. Maman and uncle Hugo had not yet returned from their night out. 

They had not even been gone long when her curiosity won the best of her and she had traipsed out the front door without a thought to her own safety. 

Maman had always just known when Estelle was in trouble. The girl had never been truly scared for her safety a day in her life because she trusted her mother more than anything in this world. 

The path leading to the woods was dark, the moon empty and the twinkling sky dimmed behind the clouds. Estelle took soft, quiet steps, a habit born from despising how noisy her own steps were within the house. 

Trees cast shadows about her, creatures of the night making tittering sounds. Estelle did not allow herself to grow afraid. She could not. 

Sound came from all over, echoes of moans and rustling of forest steps. 

Estelle still did not allow herself to feel any fear. 

Wind caught at her nightdress, tangles of hair snatching the branches. Tears stung her eyes with the sharp tugs. 

This was how her maman found her, a panic marring the beauty of her love. The wild fear in Marion's eyes brought the young girl to sobs, clutching at the neckline of her mother's simple dress as she shivered into her. Maman was cold, but she was always cold, and the comfort it brought her sunk into her rattled frame. 

"Estelle! Estelle, what are you doing out in the middle of the night?" Maman asked. "It is dark and the woods are not safe. There are animals! You could become lost!" 

The nine-year-old sniffled. "I was looking for you, maman. I wanted to know why you leave." 

Her maman grows stiff, solid as stone, before she softens with a sigh. "Ma fille, it is not something maman can tell you yet." 

Estelle pulls away and looks. She had become good at looking, at seeing the things that the villagers do not, as she knew her family best and could see the differences, could see the things that they could not. 

Estelle was smart, and she blinks with bleary eyes that had slowly adjusted to the darkness. 

Maman's dress was wet at the front, a small patch similar to when Estelle would be nuzzled in close after a bath, or when her maman would dry her hands on her dress after doing the washing. The colour was dark, but in the night, she would not see why. 

The young girl knew that it was not water. 

She does not mention it to maman that she has seen it. 

Estelle is nine and knows that her family is different. Estelle is not sure is she is able to learn why that is yet. 

***

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2022-10-12